


Swallowing Poison

by rosecake



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Manipulation, Poison, References to Incest, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/pseuds/rosecake
Summary: Everything in Crimson Peak belonged to Lucille, Edith included, whether she was alive or buried in the cold ground.





	Swallowing Poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wynnebat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/gifts).



"You need to pick another girl," said Lucille, her arm linked with her brother's as they walked back to their hotel.

Thomas sighed. "There are not so many wealthy and unencumbered heiresses in America as you seem to think," he said. "What other girl is there? Eunice? Her family is much too large."

"And she's not nearly as attractive as Edith, is she?" asked Lucille, and she got only silence in response.

Lucille couldn't fully blame him for his weakness. The Cushing girl had her charms, her bright attractions, and even Lucille could feel herself being drawn to them. Edith was too clever, though, too ready to stand up for herself and her beliefs. She might be a bit naive, but she didn't seem docile. Their last go round had been hard on Lucille, and she'd hoped they'd find an easier girl this time. 

She did not think Edith was going to be easy.

"We're not looking for an ideal wife," said Lucille. It was frustrating that he needed to be reminded, that he was so willing to let his mind slip from the heart of their task. "We are looking for an ideal _sacrifice_. And you should keep that in mind." 

\----------

Edith did not adjust well to the Sharpe home. Lucille hadn't expected her to, and it didn't matter much anyway. Edith wouldn't be there for long.

For the moment, she was clearly unhappy and disoriented by the house's many peculiarities. The skin under her eyes was dark, and Lucille suspected her sleep had been restless. Lucille was pleased - Edith's misery would make her easier to manipulate, and less likely to notice the poison.

She'd also been pleased with Edith's reaction to the fore-edge illustrations she'd shown her. Not shocked, not repulsed, but almost jealous in a way. All those little roughly drawn figures were getting a lot more love and affection than Edith was, after all, and Lucille looked forward to twisting the knife further. She let her fingers drag across the dusty spines of the books in their library as she looked for the one she wanted. She and Thomas hadn't had the spare money to purchase many additions to the library in adulthood, but fortunately their ancestors had been filthy-minded enough that she had plenty of suitable options.

Lucille found the one she wanted, and waited until Edith had finished her tea and was paying proper attention before she flipped through the pages. Time had faded some of the illustrations, but the vulgarity was still quite readily apparent. There were far darker collections in the library, but Lucille's goal for the day was to distract Edith, to frustrate her, not send her running from the house. Let her frustrations with Thomas's coldness grow, let them consume her, let them burn up all the energy that little enquiring mind had and keep it distracted from the real horror at the heart of Crimson Peak. 

"Why are you showing me this?" asked Edith.

There was a dismayed tone to her voice, but she didn't pull away, and the look on her face was hardly revulsion. Her face was flushed, her lips very slightly parted as her chest rose and fell, and she did meet Lucille's eyes as she spoke. She was still looking down at the illustrations.

"Come now, Edith," said Lucille, teasing her slightly. "It can't be the first time you've seen something like this. Do they not have books like this in America?"

"I can't say I ever saw anything quite like it in the library," said Edith. Her eyes flickered to Lucille for a moment before she looked down again. "I'm afraid they expected us to make heavier use of our imagination."

"Imagination is certainly useful, but don't you find that fantasies get boring after a while?" asked Lucille. They were sitting very close together, their skirts touching around their legs, and Lucille shifted so that their legs were unmistakably pressed together beneath the thick fabric.

"Yes," said Edith, the frustration evident her voice. Poor Edith, she'd gotten such a whirlwind romance in America, and then England had failed to deliver anything more than loneliness.

Her empty teacup sat on a stack of books beside them, forgotten for the moment as Lucille ran a hand down Edith's cheek. That got her Edith's full attention. "It's much easier to pretend when you have something physical to hold onto, isn't it? I used to touch myself all the time when I was reading," said Lucille. It had been so frustrating, separated from her brother for so long in that awful place, but she had found ways to manage. She had found other girls, just as frustrated, to teach her. "Surely you must have done something similar."

Edith's lips parted, but the words took a moment to come from her.

"Sometimes," said Edith, the word coming from her in a rush. She leaned into Lucille's touch, and Lucille smiled. "It never feels like enough, though. It always feels like something I need someone else for."

"Yes," said Lucille. "And I'm sure you'll get it soon enough." 

\----------

"There are ghosts here," said Edith, her face so white that she might as well be a ghost herself. "Surely you've seen them too? Surely you can hear them? There's something _wrong_ with this place."

"There are a great number of things wrong with this place," said Lucille. "The foundation, for one, and the roof and the pipes and the insulation. No ghosts, though."

"Lucille," said her brother sharply, and Lucille's face twisted into a scowl before she could control her reaction.

Edith hadn't signed the legal papers yet, and so Lucille had only barely started on dosing her tea. They hadn't even really done anything to her yet, and already the girl was driving herself mad. And Thomas, with his renewed interest in his invention, was being of very little help in controlling the situation. Lucille sighed, and then forced her expression back into one of mild concern.

"Drink this," she said, offering the teacup to Edith for the second time. The first time Edith had nearly knocked it out of her hand in her hysteria, but she had calmed somewhat, and hesitantly accepted it when Lucille held it out for her again.

"Thank you," she said automatically, but she only took a brief sip before setting the cup in her lap.

That was fine. The one sip would be enough. Her eyes fluttered shut shortly afterwards, and Thomas had to take the cup from her hands to stop it from spilling on her as she slumped over in sleep.

"What did you give her?" he asked, bringing the cup to his own nose, as if he knew enough to identify anything she made by scent alone.

"A sedative," said Lucille. It was fine if the girl was sick for a while, but Lucille had to be careful with how much poison went into the tea at this stage. Edith needed to live long enough to sign the papers, after all, otherwise what was the point of bringing her to their home? 

"Was that really necessary?"

"It will do her some good to sleep," said Lucille. She looked at her brother, trying to gauge his thoughts. "She knows more than she should, Thomas. What have you been telling her?"

"Nothing," he said, and he was looking right at her as he said it, so she knew he wasn't lying.

A thread of discomfort wove its way into Lucille, but she ignored it. So long as Edith was in the house, she was within Lucille's control, and there was nothing to worry about. Edith was a perceptive girl, and so it wasn't surprising that her suspicions were already getting the better of her even so early into her visit. It didn't matter. Edith still wasn't clever enough to save herself.

"She needs to better managed," said Lucille.

"How do you expect me to manage her when you won't even let me-"

"I'll do it," interrupted Lucille, and Thomas fell silent. "I'll handle her."

Just like she handled everything else.

\----------

Lucille considered waiting by Edith's bed for her to wake, but in the end it seemed a waste of time. Instead, she sat in the living room playing the piano, and relied on the beauty of the music to drawn Edith to her.

She was not disappointed.

"You really are very talented," said Edith as she walked in, her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. She was still pale, but far calmer than she had been the night before.

"Thank you," said Lucille. She shifted to the side of the piano bench, leaving room for Edith to sit down beside her. "Are you feeling better this morning?"

"Yes," said Edith. "I slept... I somehow slept very soundly, after everything. I think it helped."

"I'm surprised, honestly, how strongly you seem to believe in spirits," said Lucille. "Your father always seemed the very practical type, like he wouldn't be very tolerant of superstition."

"Yes," said Edith, lightly pressing down on a key on her end of the piano, not hard enough to make the note heard. "I saw my mother, once, right after she died."

"One time?" said Lucille. "One time, when you were a child, and that was enough to make a believer out of you?"

"Once, right after she died, but I've seen more of her recently," said Edith.

"And what did she say to you?" asked Lucille.

She was curious, even if she didn't believe in ghosts herself. It might still tell her something about Edith.

Edith looked at her, briefly, hesitation in her voice. "Nothing," she finally said, looking down at the piano. "They never say anything. I am surprised, though, that you don't believe in them. Living in a place like this, I would think you'd be more inclined to understand than most people."

Lucille laughed. She knew full well ghosts weren't real. If they were, her mother would have dragged her down to Hell a long time ago. But neither her mother, nor any of the others she'd killed, had ever so much as jumped out to scare her in the night. 

"Oh, Edith. You can't be superstitious and live in a place like this. You'll go mad. And the last thing I want is for you to go mad," said Lucille.

"I suppose you're right," said Edith, leaning her head to rest against Lucille's shoulder.

"Of course I am," said Lucille. "And don't forget to drink your tea." 

\----------

A single candle flickered on the bed stand, trying vainly to beat back the nighttime darkness of Lucille's room. It shouldn't have been enough, small a thing as it was, but the meager light caught on the bright yellow of Edith's hair and the white of her shift, and somehow even tucked away in the dark corners of the Sharpe home Edith still managed to look like the sun at midday.

Lucille blinked. She was not one for shyness, but her home was a dark place and had been ever since she could remember. Her eyes had grown accustomed to it, and after so long in the dark it was painful for her look at Edith's brightness directly. The light left spots in her vision and made it hard to think clearly.

She licked her fingers and then snuffed the candle out, her practiced fingers moving too quickly to be burnt.

"Lucille?" asked Edith, and she had been bold enough before, but she was suddenly hesitant in the absence of light.

"Hush," said Lucille, softly. Gently. Right now she wanted Edith soft and pliant beneath her hands. There would be a time for fear, but that could come later. "I can still see you."

Lucille leaned down and pressed her face into Edith's neck, inhaling. In the darkness there was nothing but the feel of her her, the sound of her heaving breathing, and her scent filling the air. Lucille could smell Edith's light perfume, like lemons, and even in the darkness she still _smelled_ bright and yellow. Underneath the perfume, though, Lucille could also smell the warm heat of her. And underneath even that, undetectable to anyone but her, the very faint scent of poison.

Edith was still on a very small dose. Lucille should have escalated by now, until the slight disorientation and light shudders grew into violent seizures, but she hadn't.

She had allowed herself to be distracted. But the inheritance was still up in the air, held up by delays caused by the lawyers in America, and so there was time for distraction.

Lucille's hand trailed down, gently rearranging the fabric of Edith's shift even as she kept her mouth at Edith's neck, tasting her soft, delicate skin. Edith's soft moans turned into a sudden, violent gasp as Lucille's fingers met their target and stroked, and Edith raised her hips to meet her hand, to get more of Lucille inside her.

"Oh, Lucille," said Edith, tangling one of her hands in Lucille's hair, and Lucille hadn't quite expected her to be so bold as to touch back. She was pleased, though, even as Edith's hands fumbled inelegantly in the dark. Lucille had not kept her own shift on, had not felt the need for its protection, and Edith's hands slid across her bare skin as Lucille's fingers drew soft, needy moans from her.

She had thought she would need to move slower, that she would need to take her time. It wouldn't take much for Edith to come, quite possibly for the first time in her sheltered life, and then it wouldn't take much convincing to get her to move her soft, warm mouth between Lucille's own legs. Edith would be open to direction, eager to please, eager to be seen as some sort of an equal. All of which Lucille would be delighted to take advantage of.

Edith cried out softly as she came, and even in the darkness Lucille could see the sheen of sweat across her face, her shift damp from exertion and, perhaps, a slight fever that was not natural in origin.

"Did you enjoy that?" asked Lucille, gently sliding her wet fingers across Edith's cheek.

"Yes," said Edith, breathlessly, her chest still rising and falling rapidly.

"Oh, wonderful, because we've only just gotten started." 

\----------

The poison seemed to keep Edith docile enough during the day, and the sex kept her distracted at night, but it still wasn't enough. Lucille flipped through Edith's writing, long after Edith had fallen asleep, and she did not like what she read. It was fiction, or it least it claimed to be, but the ghost stories Edith was writing were far too close to the truth for Lucille's comfort. She could see the mystery starting to come together in the heroine's head, and that was the last thing she wanted.

Lucille didn't like writers. They didn't know how to keep secrets.

She set fire to the papers, making sure even the smallest embers were burnt up in the flames. Later, when Edith asked after her manuscript, Lucille denied having seen it.

"I don't know what I could have done with it," said Edith, distress marring the pretty features of her face, and Lucille took her hand to squeeze it gently.

"I'm sure it will turn up," said Lucille. "You look a bit distracted, though. Let me get you something to drink. It will help clear your head."

A delay in the inevitable. The girl was too perceptive for her own good, and she was already far closer to the truth than she should be, by some means that Lucille couldn't quite fathom.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" said Edith. She swallowed her tea down quickly. She'd gotten less suspicious of it since she'd started sleeping with Lucille. Or maybe it was because Lucille had taken to adding honey to mask the bitterness.

"Of course," said Lucille. "I wouldn't have it any other way."  

\----------

"The plan has changed, then?" asked Thomas, hope in his voice, and Lucille's fingers tightened around the delicate china she was washing.

"Of course it hasn't," she snapped, and Thomas flinched away from her in response. "There is only way this story ends, Thomas. You know that just as well as I do."

"You want her here, don't you?" he asked.

The cup in Lucille's hand cracked, the delicate china too fragile for her anger, and blood seeped out from where the shards cut her skin. Shallow cuts. Nothing to worry about, even if she hadn't quite washed all the poison off.  

"Nothing lasts forever," said Lucille. "This will end soon enough."  

\----------

"There's something wrong with this place," said Edith, her face still slick from having been buried between Lucille's thighs, and Lucille reached out to wipe her face clean. "They keep trying to warn me. I think they're trying to show me something."

"Hush," said Lucille. Edith had stopped talking about ghosts for a while after they'd first slept together, but at a certain point she couldn't contain herself about them any longer. Possibly because of the poison. Even at low doses, it wasn't good for Edith's sense of sanity to be drinking it every day without interruption. She probably wasn't even aware of how much she went on about them. "Don't pay them any mind. They're just jealous of the living."

"There's something wrong with this place," said Edith again, a hand on her stomach. "Nothing can grow here. Nothing really lives here."

"Don't you feel alive?" asked Lucille, dragging her fingers up Edith's thigh.

Edith sighed, her legs spreading wider at the touch. She was already wet herself. "I'm not really sure anymore."

"Well, let me remind you," said Lucille, lowering herself to her knees.

It couldn't last forever. Lucille would be the death of Edith, one way or another. The land would demand its sacrifice, just like it always did, and Lucille would provide it. Her family, her home, all of it came at a cost, one that Lucille was happy to pay. It might not be much, but it was <i>hers</i>, and that was the important thing. Before that, though, Lucille was going to drain every drop of pleasure she could out of Edith. 

Everything in Crimson Peak belonged to Lucille, Edith included, whether she was alive or buried in the cold ground.  

 


End file.
